In the fern woods

I scattered my son’s ashes in the fern woods
as raindrops tapped like centipede’s feet
on the balcony leaves of maple and oak.
I scattered his ashes near the ancestor oak,
old, gnarled, twisted, huge,
because above all he is a Druid, and there is no name to this
place.
You must take the twists and turns,
the new, She will always be new.
This turn of ferny woods will be gone again,
fallen trunks and scattered stones,
anew with plants and creatures,
yesterday’s underlayer giving birth to tomorrow.
My son lives here, with Arthur and Morgaine,
listening for Gandalf and the Lady of the Woods,
and Hecate forever at the crossroads.
One would risk one’s mind to have it all,
to have this eternity, this newness, this death,
and he got that from me, as I hoped he would.
Step into the new world with great trust and great love!
Ancestors will guide you, all life will support you,
and the spicy sweet bed of ferns will cradle you on your way.

Annelinde Metzner
Weaverville